Lelia Eye's Blog, page 6

Waiting for an Echo: Echoes at Dawn

We are excited to announce the publication of Waiting for an Echo: Echoes at Dawn! It is the second of two volumes.

It can be found here as a trade paperback or here as an ebook. We appreciate your support!

 

Waiting for an Echo:   Echoes at Dawn

Continuing after Words in the Darkness, Echoes at Dawn follows Elizabeth Bennet as she travels to Kent to visit her sister Mary, who has recently married Mr. Collins. There, she meets with a villain who is already known to her, and she is forced to deal with the consequences of a pair of tragic events.

Despite these developments, Elizabeth finds that what troubles her more than anything else is the arrival of Mr. Darcy in Kent. She finds it difficult to reconcile her image of the man whose conversation she enjoys with that of the man she suspects almost ruined her dear sister Jane’s happiness forever. Upon being introduced to the rakish James Baker and his flighty sister Elia, Elizabeth’s equilibrium is only further disturbed . . . especially since Miss Baker appears to have captured Mr. Darcy’s interest.

In the end, Elizabeth must determine the state of her heart and affections if she is ever to find true happiness.

Anthony Trollope

After taking a graduate class on Anthony Trollope some years ago, I have a rather love/hate relationship with the man. I believe we read like eight of his books in a semester, and considering they were all like 600-800 pages long, it seemed as if much of my free time was spent reading his books. Yet I feel there is something to be learned from the man.

His works were written much later in the 1800s than Jane Austen’s, but they can still serve as inspiration for anyone writing in Austen’s time period . . . or any sort of writer at all, in truth. He produced forty-seven novels and 18 miscellaneous volumes (travel writing, biographies, etc.), and he wrote anywhere from 10,000 to 25,000 words a week (see this page for more details). In his autobiography, he notes that he woke up at 5:30 so he could write before work and that he believed “three hours a day [of continuous work] will produce as much as a man ought to write.”

I tried looking for a number totaling how many words he wrote, but I could not find one. Yet if each of his 47 novels was at least 200,000 (which I would readily believe), then that means that from 1847 to 1884, he wrote over 9 million words. That is not even taking into account all the other things he wrote.

Now, if you are a writer, you may have no intention of being quite as prolific, yet as I noted, there is something to learn from him. Consider ways you can try to get more writing time in. Can you get up an hour early? Cut an hour of TV from your life? You might be surprised as to where you can squeeze in some time.

Discipline yourself so that you are forced to write. One of my favorite quotes from Oscar Wilde is this: “I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.” Even if all you do is move around a little punctuation, work is work, and every minute counts. Outlines are an especially useful tool for speeding up work. They take some time to construct, but they are well worth it in the end.

In honor of Trollope, I’m putting an amusing excerpt from his novel The Eustace Diamonds below. But first, I’ll give you a little context.

Frank is trying to help his cousin Lizzie get through some legal troubles. She has a romantic interest in him (even though he is engaged to someone else), and he is finding it difficult to extract himself from the situation. Gowran is Lizzie’s steward.

 

Excerpt from “VOLUME I CHAPTER XXVI – Mr. Gowran Is Very Funny”

She was still dissolved in tears and was still hysteric. “Oh, Frank!” she said, and threw herself upon his breast.

Frank Greystock felt his position to be one of intense difficulty, but whether his difficulty was increased or diminished by the appearance of Mr. Andy Gowran’s head over a rock at the entrance of the little cave in which they were sitting, it might be difficult to determine. But there was the head. And it was not a head that just popped itself up and then retreated, as a head would do that was discovered doing that which made it ashamed of itself. The head, with its eyes wide open, held its own, and seemed to say,–“Ay,–I’ve caught you, have I?” And the head did speak, though not exactly in those words. “Coosins!” said the head; and then the head was wagged. In the meantime Lizzie Eustace, whose back was turned to the head, raised her own, and looked up into Greystock’s eyes for love. She perceived at once that something was amiss, and, starting to her feet, turned quickly round. “How dare you intrude here?” she said to the head. “Coosins!” replied the head, wagging itself.

It was clearly necessary that Greystock should take some steps, if only with the object of proving to the impudent factotum that he was not altogether overcome by the awkwardness of his position. That he was a good deal annoyed, and that he felt not altogether quite equal to the occasion, must be acknowledged. “What is it that the man wants?” he said, glaring at the head. “Coosins!” said the head, wagging itself again. “If you don’t take yourself off, I shall have to thrash you,” said Frank. “Coosins!” said Andy Gowran, stepping from behind the rock and showing his full figure. Andy was a man on the wrong side of fifty, and therefore, on the score of age, hardly fit for thrashing. And he was compact, short, broad, and as hard as flint;–a man bad to thrash, look at it from what side you would. “Coosins!” he said yet again. “Ye’re mair couthie than coosinly, I’m thinking.”

“Andy Gowran, I dismiss you from my service for your impertinence,” said Lady Eustace.

“It’s ae ane to Andy Gowran for that, my leddie. There’s timber and a warld o’ things aboot the place as wants proteection on behalf o’ the heir. If your leddieship is minded to be quit o’ my sarvices, I’ll find a maister in Mr. Camperdoon, as’ll nae alloo me to be thrown out o’ employ. Coosins!”

“Walk off from this!” said Frank Greystock, coming forward and putting his hand upon the man’s breast. Mr. Gowran repeated the objectionable word yet once again, and then retired.

Waiting for an Echo Volume 2: Echoes at Dawn

We are excited to announce the upcoming publication of Echoes at Dawn, the second and final volume of our Waiting for an Echo series. Our anticipated publication date is April 30, and you will be able to find it on Amazon.

Continuing after Words in the Darkness, Echoes at Dawn follows Elizabeth Bennet as she travels to Kent to visit her sister Mary, who has recently married Mr. Collins. There, she meets with a villain who is already known to her, and she is forced to deal with the consequences of a pair of tragic events.

Despite these developments, Elizabeth finds that what troubles her more than anything else is the arrival of Mr. Darcy in Kent. She finds it difficult to reconcile her image of the man whose conversation she enjoys with that of the man she suspects almost ruined her dear sister Jane’s happiness forever. Upon being introduced to the rakish James Baker and his flighty sister Elia, Elizabeth’s equilibrium is only further disturbed . . . especially since Miss Baker appears to have captured Mr. Darcy’s interest.

In the end, Elizabeth must determine the state of her heart and affections if she is ever to find true happiness.

We will be providing a link once Waiting for an Echo: Echoes at Dawn is published. We appreciate your support of our writing endeavors! For now, please enjoy this excerpt.

 

Chapter I

Meryton. It was the same old town he remembered from five years before, and those intervening years had not changed it in the slightest. Of course, Meryton was typical of any other small market town which could be found in every corner of the kingdom, containing dusty streets which turned into a veritable quagmire after a rainfall, small shops with little or no quality or charm to them, and dreadfully ordinary locals whose lives were just as drab and boring as the town in which they lived.

Still, Meryton—and any other town like it—was nothing more than a means to an end for an enterprising young man such as himself. And at this point in his history, enterprising was exactly what he needed to be.

Though he had never been rich—no thanks to someone he could name—he had been holding his own until recently, with the freedom to do as he pleased. Then, after a streak of bad luck with cards and a few poor choices at the horseracing track, his hard-won resources had been all but depleted. With no other choice before him and a mountain of debts behind him, he had left his establishment and set out into the world to make his fortune . . . again.

But he did not let the repetition darken his mood. He could always find people to swindle, credit to run up, and a few widows or maidens with whom he was duty-bound to share his charms. And if the females with whom he cavorted had money, then so much the better.

In some respects, however, the chase and all that came with it was a bother. Feminine delights could be readily found at the many establishments he frequented, and as for the other things involved in the chase, he would just as soon spend his time at the gaming tables. No, the chase was a means to an end, not the end itself, and though he would have preferred not to be bothered by it again, his circumstances and appetites—not to mention his tendency to go through money as if it were water—necessitated his imminent performance.

Because the chase had been difficult and fruitless thus far, he was ready to break from his search to conduct a conquest which promised more than a little pleasure. That was the reason he had come to Meryton.

Over the past five years, he had often found his mind wandering back to this insignificant little speck which barely appeared on any map. And somewhat surprisingly, it was not the thought of past triumphs, conquests, or extraordinary luck in gaming that kept the town on his mind. It was the girl who had managed to escape him. Few had ever evaded him after he had set his sights on them, which was, he supposed, why his thoughts had returned to her so often despite the passage of time.

She had been a pretty little thing less than five years before, and the period he had spent “courting” her had been most enjoyable, for she was not like most other young women of her age. For one, she was not a bashful young lady who blushed prettily while agreeing with every word which proceeded out of his mouth—his wife, to his mingled amusement and disgust, had been very much that sort of woman. No, this girl he remembered had been intelligent and unafraid to show her intelligence by challenging his opinions and stating her own with decided confidence. That in and of itself set her apart from just about any other young lady of her station . . . and made the idea of her surrender all the more satisfying.

Now, after five more years of maturity, he could hardly imagine how she would appear, but he was wagering that her youthful prettiness had grown into an uncommon beauty, and he very much wished to sample the delights she had to offer. It truly was a shame that she had lacked the monetary inducements necessary to satisfy his needs.

He strode into town with the confident strut he had carefully cultivated over the years, and he frequented a few of the shops, just enough to observe and gather information. It was at a taphouse that he finally heard all he needed to know; he then quietly left town, mounted the horse he had left tied to a tree just on the city’s outskirts, and took the road heading north.

The journey was barely a mile from Meryton and took him only a few minutes on horseback. When the manor came into his view, he smiled to himself before schooling his features into his customary charming demeanor. He dismounted in front of the door and knocked, handing his card—one of the few he still possessed—to the maid who answered.

In only a few moments, the maid had returned, and he was led into the well-remembered parlor to greet the inhabitants.

“Mr. Wickham!” exclaimed the matron of the house.

He smiled and greeted her with aplomb, noting that only one of her daughters seemed to be in evidence—the youngest one, unless he missed his guess. He could not even remember her name, not that she had mattered much to him back then; she had only been eleven at the time, and though he appreciated them young as much as the next rake, even he had his limits.

“How do you do, madam?”

“I do very well, Mr. Wickham. I had not heard that you were again in the area.”

“I have just recently returned, Mrs. Bennet, and am very glad to see you again. Is your family all well?”

“They are, indeed, Mr. Wickham.”

Then her face suddenly clouded over, and she regarded him with a scowl. “And how is Mrs. Wickham?”

It had taken longer than he would have thought, but it appeared the memory of his time in Meryton—and the reason he had left—had finally penetrated the fog of Mrs. Bennet’s mind. It was clear a certain amount of flattery, combined with an induction of pity, was in order to win the clueless woman over long enough to extract some information from her.

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Wickham is no longer among the living, Mrs. Bennet,” replied he, allowing a glum expression to fall over his face.

Mrs. Bennet appeared to be taken aback. “I am very sorry to hear that, sir. Please accept the condolences of my entire family.”

“I thank you, madam. It was a tragic loss. Mrs. Wickham, who had recently found out she was with child, went out riding and was killed when her horse reared and threw her to the ground. And I was so looking forward to becoming a father . . . .”

Enthralled by the tale, Mrs. Bennet clucked her tongue and murmured her sympathy for his loss, in response to which Mr. Wickham thanked her, allowing silence to fall over the room.

At length, Mrs. Bennet roused herself to call for tea, and sitting once again in her chair, she looked at him with frank appraisal.

“In spite of your loss, sir, you appear remarkably well. I understand Mrs. Wickham was heiress to an estate in Surrey. How do you find life as a gentleman running an estate?”

“Very well indeed, madam,” replied Wickham, though he had never spared a moment’s time for the upkeep of the estate. “The estate is very prosperous, and while it does consume a certain amount of my time, I have an excellent steward to assist in its running.” In truth, the estate his wife had inherited was nowhere near prosperous enough to warrant a steward, and he had sold it two years ago to fund his activities.

A manic gleam of greed appeared in Mrs. Bennet’s eyes, and she gazed at him in a calculating manner, exactly as he had intended.

“So, do you mean to come and ask after Lizzy?” asked the young girl at Mrs. Bennet’s side, speaking up at last. “Perhaps you have changed your mind and wish to pursue her again?”

“Oh, hush, Lydia,” was Mrs. Bennet’s reply.

Lydia! That was the girl’s name. She appeared to be about the age that Elizabeth had been when he was here before. Furthermore, she was blessed with womanly attributes similar to that of her elder sister. In fact, she resembled Elizabeth quite closely—much more so than any of her other sisters, unless he remembered incorrectly. She also seemed to lack even an iota of her elder sister’s wit and intelligence.

“Do not concern yourself, madam,” said he, unconcerned over the girl’s words. “I had thought to call concerning your family, after all.”

“Ah, yes,” responded Mrs. Bennet. “Unfortunately, at present, only my Lydia is at home.”

That did not sound promising. If Elizabeth were already married . . . Of course, that did not truly signify. Among his conquests were numbered not a few widows and several married women. Should Elizabeth be willing—or perhaps even should she not be quite willing—her marital status would not bother him in the least.

“Yes, Mr. Wickham, only I am home,” acknowledged Lydia with a considering eye. “Jane and Kitty are in London with our aunt and uncle, while Mary and Lizzy are in Kent. Mary has lately married, so Lizzy is visiting her. I am afraid I am the only one of my sisters available to greet you, sir.”

Though the girl was all but batting her eyes at him, Wickham was far more interested in the information she had imparted about her eldest sister. Elizabeth—the one who had resisted his advances—was still unattached. An opportunity was there, and he would not pass it up.

“Ah, Kent—what a beautiful region.”

“Are you familiar with the country?” queried Mrs. Bennet.

“Indeed, I am,” replied Wickham. “Pardon me, but whom has your sister married?”

“She has married my husband’s cousin, Mr. Collins. Mr. Collins is the rector at Hunsford parsonage, where the esteemed Lady Catherine de Bourgh serves as his patroness. As he is the heir to Longbourn due to the entail, Mary will be the mistress of this house after I am gone. I once detested the very thought of that entail, but I suppose it is in truth not so very terrible a thing.”

Hunsford! Wickham smiled at the thought. So, Elizabeth was in Hunsford, not a mile or two from the great estate of Rosings, which he had visited as a boy in the company of his godfather’s son, Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Wickham nearly scowled at the thought of the man. Darcy was certainly no longer a friend of his, and they had not come across each other in some time now. Still, Wickham made it a point to never forget anyone who had wronged him . . . and the payback he owed the master of Pemberley was long overdue. Given the man’s many offenses against Wickham, that revenge merited special consideration indeed.

He brought his mind back to Elizabeth and reflected that it truly did not matter where she was when he pursued her. Kent would suffice in every way, for there were as many lonely heiresses there as anywhere else. Meanwhile, with any luck, Elizabeth Bennet would soon be his in every way possible. He might even keep her, though she could not increase his fortune—she affected him like no other ever had, after all.

Once he had received his desired intelligence, he conversed easily with the two ladies until the time for a polite visit had elapsed. Having put up with her for the past half-hour, he now considered Lydia Bennet flighty and stupid, not worth his time to pursue—not when there were greater treasures to obtain. Mrs. Bennet invited him to stay for dinner, but considering the fact that Elizabeth had been her father’s favorite, he doubted the master of the estate would appreciate his attendance. He declined, saying he had business in town that evening and giving her every assurance he would call again later in the week. Of course, he had no intention of ever keeping that promise.

Only moments later, he was back on his horse, pointed toward London and the challenge which waited beyond. There was enough time left, he thought, to make it to an inn he remembered on the outskirts of town which was known for its fine ale and even finer maids. There, he would stay a day or two and plan his next move. He smiled to himself. His stop at Longbourn had turned out to be very profitable indeed.